


A Glimpse of the Infinite

by amarriageoftrueminds



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Ficlet, M/M, PWP, Sex, Telepathy, intense mindfucking, or should that be mindmakinglove
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-26
Updated: 2013-06-26
Packaged: 2017-12-16 05:21:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/858266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amarriageoftrueminds/pseuds/amarriageoftrueminds
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><span class="small"></span><br/><b>"Erik understands at the same second as the sensation grabs hold of him, rocketing him up into a unknown stratosphere. He <i>understands. </i> Being inside a telepath’s mind when they’re inside yours is not like looking into a mirror: it is like stepping between <i>two </i>mirrors and seeing your infinite selves vanishing into the distance, trapped in a sliver of glass. The pleasure is not twofold but doubling back in on itself, in and around and back again, again and again, in an endless feedback loop."</b><br/> </p><p>.<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	A Glimpse of the Infinite

**Author's Note:**

>   
>  I've seen a lot of fics where Charles uses his telepathy during sex but never one which extended that premise to the logical conclusion, so pursuant to my brain’s unhelpful habit of bombarding me with bunnies 24/7 I bring you: **The Obligatory Telepathic-Sex PWP** ~ _complete with pretentious profound title_ ~  
> This particular bunny hit me aeons ago and by god I finally got it down.  
>  **[[originally posted to my tumblr ](http://amarriageoftrueminds.tumblr.com/post/41562946713/cherik-pwp-ficlet-slivers-of-infinity) ]**

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

"...for there is no detectable space 'between' two thoughts through which one can glimpse the Infinite.   
The supposed 'space' is not between the thoughts but prior to the thoughts [....] to try to witness the     
space between two thoughts is like a dog's trying to chase its own tail. This is why many serious and     
committed meditators do not reach Enlightenment, even after many years of devoted meditation.          
They are simply looking in the wrong place..."                                                                                       

                        – **David Hawkins**

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

One night at the manor they lock themselves away in Charles’ room and have what can only be described as  _Olympic_  sex. 

 

Charles lets Erik take him as hard and as fast as he wants – in his lap, on all fours, bent over the edge of the bed, on his back with Erik holding his ankles up in the air as he thrusts inside. He gets down on his knees with Erik’s fist knotted in his hair and let Erik fuck his mouth in a slow steady rhythm, while he looks up at him with eyes like saucers. He even lets Erik take his penis in one hand, glide back the unfamiliar foreskin and, with a dangerously smouldering look, rub the calloused pad of one fingertip over his slit until he comes - instantly, explosively - with a cry so ragged it’s almost a yodel, and Erik grins like Satan as he pinches at his nipples and licks him dry. 

 

That was the first few times. 

The last is different. 

The last is the first time Charles ever _says it._

 

This comes some hours later, in the early morning...

 

They are lying in the huge wooden sleigh-bed, Erik reclining with the sheets pushed down to his waist, his hand behind his head and Charles nestled into his side. 

  
Every so often, he reaches out to the ash-tray, sitting on the night stand to his left, and taps off the excess from the end of his cigarette. Erik smokes like he's sucking the life out of the thing; right down to the filter, with great clouds of smoke held dormant in his mouth, like a dragon's cave.

A few tendrils seep out and escape towards the ceiling, and Erik watches them go in unsmiling reflection. 

  
Beside him, Charles is absorbed in petting his chest, rubbing his cheek against the smooth skin, planting quiet, considerate kisses.

 

Erik lets him, aware that Charles is somehow thanking him for what’s gone before. 

  
Soon the stroking becomes a caress, and Charles is rubbing at the ladder of muscle down Erik’s long stomach, pushing the sheets down further, until he is slipping his hand into the shadow of Erik’s crotch. 

  
Erik’s study of the ceiling intensifies. 

  
There is no sound but the distant creak of old beams as the house settles itself around them, and the tiny wet smacking of Charles’ lips as he sucks at one of Erik’s nipples. 

  
It feels as if he’s being worshipped… and asked for something.

Though they are both exhausted, have barely any energy left, Erik doesn't make him stop.

 

When he doesn't object, Charles crawls astride him, lies down full stretch on top of him and rolls his hips down gently, begging his permission. 

  
Erik runs out of patience. 

  
He sits up, suddenly, slaps his hands onto Charles’ tight little body and hefts him into the air, until Charles has to  wrap an arm around his neck to stay up, one hand clamped onto the slope of Erik’s shoulder blade.   
  
They both enjoy it when he  _manhandles_ Charles this way; watching his face closely for signs of arousal, feeling his own only strengthen. 

  
He’s not teasing any more. 

  
He pulls Charles hard against him until Charles’ bended knees are jutting out behind his back, and then reaches around behind him with his free hand to feel for it… Charles is still loose and slick. 

  
He has to savour this moment, though; this close a view of Charles’ reaction as he impales him on his cock. Normally this would be the time for a quick brutal thrust inside, just to hear Charles cry out, but the moment Erik’s cock slides through the cleft of his arse, Charles brushes his open mouth against Erik’s mouth and soothes his wickedness with a sad little murmur.   
  
So instead Erik finds himself easing Charles down, inch by inch, slowly and carefully, until he is balls-deep inside. 

  
Only then does he lie back. 

  
He lets Charles use his body, ride his cock; fatigue setting the pace at a slow, steady roll. He keeps his hands on Charles’ full hips, holding him in place. 

  
He loves watching Charles like this… every detail, from the flush which creeps down his chest almost as far as his hardening nipples, to the delicate shell-like nostrils which flare at every thrust, to the way the glow of the bedside-lamp (still on, from the night before) catches his soft upper lip and paints it in gold like the edge of a cloud. 

  
For some reason (perhaps because it’s not as hard and fast as before) this time seems to be _getting_ to Charles. 

  
He is doubled over with it, a darling crease of fat across his high-waisted belly; he is wrapping his arms around himself, shivering.

Yes, the room is stuffy and hot, but not enough to account for the amount of sweat glistening on his skin, the fresh glow of it on his forehead and chest, a glitter on his arms and a slick across his thighs. Nor the way he pushes at his damp hair, half-mad, his small square hands squeezing the muscles of Erik’s chest as if he's asking for something else. 

  
Erik watches his bottom-lip quiver as Charles bites it, reddening it even more, and realises Charles is murmuring to himself, keeping up a feverish sort of chant under his breath, sucking at his knuckles, smothering his gasps with his fingers. 

  
He locks gazes with Charles – another, favourite way of penetrating him – and sees that ( _yes)_ there’s a kind of torment in those endless blue eyes. 

  
‘Charles?’ He says, accent thickening deep in his chest, rubbing his hands up Charles’ sides to comfort him. ‘What is it?’

‘ _Mm_ -’ Charles seems to be having trouble speaking, but manages a fretful whisper. ‘ _More._ ’ 

Erik frowns. In all his sexual partners, this is one complaint he has never had. 

  
‘ _More?_ ’ 

Charles seems to catch his confusion, and shakes his head.

‘ _I want… you…to…’_ He forces out. ‘ _Fill me…’_

  
He tangles his hand into his hair again-  _no, not his hair_  -it’s his  _temple_  he’s reaching for, and Erik suddenly understands: Charles wants to use his telepathy. 

  
Erik looks over his face, and wonders at the self-control it shows, not to simply  _take_  what he wants _.._. 

Charles’ voice is soft and secret as he begs, a whisper like a rustling of tissue paper. ‘ _Erik…? Can I… Please...?_ ’ 

  
His eyes are _so blue._

 

Erik would only give _him_ this – _only_  him.

  
He isn’t sure if he has nodded his assent or whether Charles has read it in face. 

 

Charles reaches a hand out towards his face, and the pads of his fingertips brush against Erik’s temple, gentle and tentative as moth wings on flame. 

 

The start of it is imperceptible, Charles’ touch is so subtle; it’s as if… as if he were hearing a distant radio, only just tuned to the right frequency.

For a second Erik knows a feeling of vertigo, as if he is floating in the air above their bed, nothing but a cloud of static… but then… but then he is looking down at himself, looking  _down_ into his own eyes, and his face- the mirror of what he sees in a mirror –is the wrong way round. 

  
_Mein Gott,_ he thinks, taking in his own heavy-lidded stare, saturated with lust.  _Do I really look that dopey?_

 

(A kind of warmth ripples through him, like bubbling water; it’s what Charles’ laugh feels like from the inside.)

  
But he can also  _see_  Charles, is looking  _up at_  Charles; the two images don’t align, one of his left eyes is trying to fight what the right eyes are telling it, he’s lying down and sitting upright, he has two left arms, one of his heartbeats is out of sync with the other one- inside Charles’ body he sees his (Charles’) other hand reach out and touch- he  _feels_ it on his own chest, down there, where he really is and- 

_Shhh,_   _Erik… close your eyes..._

  
Erik does, blocking out the dizzying confusion. 

  
He can feel the sheets and the mattress springs reverberating against his back… the warm pillow under his head, the cool breath ghosting across his bare chest… the wooden bedstead braced against his toes… the weight of his tongue in his mouth, the fingertips tickling his sideburn…   
  
Charles’ thighs are warm and wet against his sides, the peachy smoothness of Charles’ skin under his hands, the scalding tightness around his cock… but he can  _also_ feel the callouses on those hands,  _his_  hands, on  _his_  hips- but those are  _Charles_ hips –and… 

  
_If I’m in here, feeling what Charles is feeling, and I’m fucking Charles-_   

Erik realises what Charles has been withholding from him, and gets to watch his own mouth stretch open in a grimace as he suddenly learns what it means to be penetrated by a cock this big. 

  
His hips buck involuntarily and he grunts in surprise.

It only makes things worse, only forces that foreign body _deeper_ inside himself. 

  
Trying to rationalise it is too difficult, impossible with such crude unwieldy things as human words.   
  
He only knows that he is himself, and inside himself-  _deep_ inside himself - and that Charles really is a martyr to this.

  
_Are you ready for the next part?_

 

He knows the question because he’s in Charles’ head, but Charles knows the answer without having to ask. 

  
His answer would have been:  _There’s more?_

 

_Wait…_  
  
He’s not in Charles’ body, but in his _mind;_ and what that mind is doing is reading  _his_ mind _…_

Erik returns to his own body… He feels what his own body feels…

But he also feels what Charles feels…

But what Charles feels is what  _he_ feels…

and what  _he_ feels is-

(he rolls his hips, up into Charles, into that self which is also Charles)

and what he feels is- 

  
_P l e a s u r e_  

  
Erik understands at the same second as the sensation grabs hold of him, rocketing him up into a unknown stratosphere.  _He understands._

  
Being inside a telepath’s mind when they’re inside yours is not like looking into a mirror: it is like stepping between  _two_  mirrors and seeing your infinite selves vanishing into the distance, trapped in a sliver of glass. The pleasure is not twofold but doubling back in on itself, in and around and back again, again and again, in an endless feedback loop. 

  
Erik gasps. 

  
He can feel them now. He  _is_  them; all those other reflections, all those Eriks in all those other universes. He is not one man but an army of men – an orgy of men – hundreds of them, thousands, millions. It is an overwhelming thought: that in a million universes, a million Eriks lie naked on a million beds in a million sweltering rooms. And all of them…  _all of them…_ are fucking Charles. 

  
Erik wants to laugh at the thought, but he can’t, because- Because the  _real_ pleasure is beginning, the kind of pressure that collapses stars from within; building and building and still-building, not only his orgasm  _inside_ Charles but Charles’ own orgasm, too, and not merely theirs but all those other Erik’s, all those other Charles’, echoing back through the cosmos.   
  
Soon he has to put a hand up to the headboard to avoid knocking himself out; senses Charles lean forwards with him and reach out over him to do the same. The bed is squeaking and groaning in protest at their motion, about to come apart at the joints, and he is vaguely aware of the pillows tumbling off the bed at his side, the mattress sliding, the ashtray and all the other objects on the night-stand jarred and jangling to the floor. 

  
Already he can barely breathe, cannot remember feeling this hard since the first painfully-sensitive erections of adolescence, the first times he touched himself. The dread itself is exquisite; the knowledge that his body will not give out, not let him stop going, for it’s all in his mind. He’s about to feel enough pleasure to kill a man. 

  
He is pushing his hips up, right up off the mattress, fucking Charles into the air. One of Charles' legs has slipped over the edge of the mattress and his white foot is jolting in mid-air. Erik's tendons are screaming with exhaustion, sinews twanging. He can taste iron in his spit, and the air he breathes is searing with cold down into his throat and chest. His muscles are burning and Charles is riding him harder and harder, making saintly little climbing noises, higher and higher the better it gets. Erik can feel the vibration of his slurring, frenzied words through his cock; praising him, telling him how big it is, how good it feels inside him, how no one’s ever filled him like this before-   _oh, Erik- oh God Erik-_

  
He opens his eyes and drinks in the sight of a thousand versions of his Charles blurring into one; a god-like figure, so pale, shining in the darkness of their room. His pitiful liquid eyes seem to fill the universe; _pleading_ with Erik to let it end, to  _please God Erik make it stop what are you doing what are you doing to me with that big… thick… hard…_ He can feel how good it is in his  _toes_ , in the backs of his spasming knees- 

  
Charles reaches it before him. 

  
The wave of sensation teeters … crests … and turns back on them.   
  
It begins: a thunder rolling down through the thousand dimensions, bigger and bigger; what should have been a ripple becomes a tsunami, big enough to blacken the sky, a line of dominoes the size of mountains, climbing higher and higher the closer they fall. And in every demolition an orgasm explodes– hundreds, thousands –piling on top of him, hundreds of helpless blue-eyed men calling his name, and each echoing voice hammers nearer, nearer, nearer-   
  
Erik can hear himself swearing, a wordless shout ripped from his lungs loud enough to tear his throat; his limbs cannot possibly sustain this much pleasure, it’s impossible, it's agony; he’s having a heart-attack, he’s going to die- 

  
He lashes out and feels a foot connect with a crunch, realises he has probably broken the bedstead; but suddenly Charles is collapsing on top of him, rubbery in his arms, and Erik realises he’s blacked out. 

  
Instinctively he curls forwards, holds Charles up off his naked torso for the split-second it takes him to recover- and this is when the last- the very last wave -crashes down on top of them. 

   
But in the end it isn’t destructive 

It’s almost 

_Sweet_.   
  
Maddening, tortuous, high; not swift, but tapering out to an exquisitely fine edge. 

  
The aftershocks punch through their shuddering limbs and they keep their bodies knotted together, sweating and panting and soaking wet, searing, unbearable heat, grasping helplessly at each other, as though they could push it away.

Charles is rubbing his cheek against Erik’s chest, mouth opening on his nipple again, the point of his hot little red tongue slipping out to taste– something, _anything –_ just wanting to  _feel._

  
A balm of silence falls on them. 

  
When Erik’s senses finally return to him there are cold tears of joy swimming beneath his eyelids.

 

They bow their heads together, and he feels Charles’ thumb grazing his cheek, brushing his hair back tenderly. He’s not trembling any more. 

  
_'Erik?_ ' 

He cannot tell if the word has been spoken or thought, but he hears Charles’ plaintive voice and his treacherous body reacts to the sound of its new master, as if a string had been pulled deep inside his chest; links him inextricably with divine, ringing joy. 

  
_'Yes?_  '  He says, or perhaps he just thinks it. 

  
_'I love you._  '

  
Erik cannot speak. His heart is too big for words. 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
